All my love
Hilary
I laid down her explicit letter and gave a little chuckle as I mopped beads of perspiration from my brow. Gad! Hilary was quite a girl, always ready to call a spade a spade-or in her case, as Teddy Carmichael once acidly remarked, to call it a bloody shovel.
With excellent timing, the receptionist came into the waiting room just as I folded Hilary's letter back into my pocket. She announced that Doctor Elstree had just returned and was ready to see me.
She escorted me through to his surgery where my physician was busy washing his hands. 'Hallo there, Andrew, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. Lady Gaiman wasn't due to give birth till tomorrow but her son had other ideas. Still, she won't grumble especially as she was lucky enough to have a short labour and a nice easy birth.
'So what can I do for you, young man?' he asked as he waved me to a chair and sat down behind his desk. 'You look healthy enough to me.'
'Well, as it happens I do feel very well,' I said and then paused to pass my hand slowly across my mouth. 'There's nothing physically wrong with me, as such. Um, it's rather embarrassing, really, you see-'
'All right, say no more. What's wrong with your prick?' Doctor Elstree interrupted me. 'It is something about your prick which has brought you here, am I right?' When I nodded wordlessly he added: 'Now, I can't believe you've been foolish enough to consort with low women, so what exactly is the matter with your todger, Andrew? Crabs, a red rash round your shaft or some other similar complaint?'
'No, no, nothing like that,' I said hastily and proceeded to tell him how, on the previous afternoon, my rebellious member had failed to rise to the occasion at Lord Philip Pelham's apartment.
'I see,' said the good doctor. I might have imagined it but I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye when he went on: 'Well, I doubt very much if there's anything really wrong with your tool. Still, I'd better have a look at it to make sure all is in working order. Go behind that screen, drop your trousers and I'll be with you in a jiffy.'
I did as he asked and sure enough, after a brief examination and a few questions about my recent sexual encounters, he said; 'Just as I thought, there's nothing to worry about. Mind you, if there were any problems, I realize what a tragedy it would be for a sophisticated young chap like yourself. After all, your cock would really be in danger of dropping off through over-use if there were any justice in the world.'
He leaned back in his chair and grinned at me as he continued: if I subscribed to some of my colleagues' more peculiar ideas, my diagnosis would be that you were suffering from satyriasis, the name given to what they would call an abnormally intense desire for sexual intercourse. But then, I happen to believe that this affliction affects us all to some degree, so there's absolutely no need to panic!
'Actually, that's the most important rule to keep in mind if ever this condition occurs again. In your case, Andrew, I am certain that the inability of your prick to perform was caused solely through physical tiredness. Remember, men reach the peak of their sexual prowess at eighteen and I'm afraid that even at the tender age of twenty-three, you possibly can't fuck for hours and hours without a break like you could five years ago. But I'll wager a pound to a penny that you now possess greater control, have more knowledge of l'arte de faire l'amour and your amorata enjoy themselves far more since you gained the experience essential to extract the maximum pleasure from activities between the sheets.'
Doctor Elstree clearly welcomed an opportunity to ride his hobby-horse and I later discovered that he had written a paper on this delicate subject for an illustrious American journal. He rose from his chair as he declared: 'A number of gentlemen with similar worries to your own have come to see me and in almost every case the difficulty was solely in the mind.
'Nervousness is often a key factor. As I told a patient only a few days ago, it is only natural to feel slightly apprehensive before intercourse if it happens to be the first time you have ever fucked the lady. You may even have drunk a little too much to steady your nerves. Or in this particular case because he was worried that his lover's husband might return home early and catch the pair of them in flagrante delicto!
'Anyhow, my advice to you is simple enough-you should give up fucking for a couple of days, take yourself off to the country for a week or so and have a damned good rest. Take my word for it, that will refresh you more than any pills or potions which I could prescribe. And I guarantee you'll come back to town so completely revitalized that you'll fuck the arse off any girl who tickles your fancy'
'Thank you, doctor,' I said. When I stood up to leave, he patted me on the back and said: 'My pleasure, dear boy, I only wish I could cure all my other patients so easily. Goodbye then, Andrew, and please pass on my kindest regards to your parents when you next write to them.'
'I certainly will, sir,' I promised him as we shook hands. I left the surgery quite elated by Doctor Elstree's professional confirmation of Claire's opinion that all I needed was a short spell far from the madding crowd to restore my cock's ability to perform on demand.
It was now nearly one o'clock so I walked briskly down towards Oxford Circus where I bought an afternoon newspaper and sat down to a light luncheon of tomato soup, fried fish and chipped potatoes and a vanilla ice, washed down by a pint of bottled beer, in a nearby small restaurant. The service had been friendly and efficient so, even though I thought that the three shillings that it cost was somewhat on the steep side, I was fumbling in my pocket for a sixpence to leave the waiter a generous gratuity when I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. I looked up to see the face of Sid Cohen, the Jim Jam Club's bookmaker looking down at me.
'Hallo there, Mister Scott, studying form for the big race at Kempton Park tomorrow?' he enquired, jabbing his finger at the newspaper which I had left open on the sports page. 'Your chum Mr. Carmichael has put a fiver on the favourite, Fletcher's Folly, at seven to two. Do you want something on it too? She's a fine little filly but between ourselves I don't think she'll stay for a mile and a half. Still, it's up to you, of course.'
'Well, let's see,' I said as I cast an eye over the page and then turned sharply away before jabbing my thumb down onto the list of runners. 'No, I won't back Teddy Carmichael's horse, as I've picked What A Cracker to earn a few bob for me. What sort of price will you give me, Sid?'
'Twenty-five to one, as it's you, sir,' he answered. I pulled out a sovereign and gave it to him saying: 'Yes, and the nag would be thirty to one to anyone else! Still, I'm feeling lucky today so I'll have a pound on the nose, please.'
'As you like, Mister Scott,' he shrugged as he slipped the coin into his pocket. 'Sure you wouldn't prefer to have ten bob each way? Because you've chosen a rank outsider, even though Martin Neild's a good jockey and will give the others a run for their money, especially if the going stays soft.'
'No, thank you, Sid,' I said lightly as I looked at my watch. 'Just leave the winnings with the porter at the Jim Jam Club on Saturday night, I could do with the twenty-five smackers.'
'So could I,' said the bookmaker with a friendly grin. 'That's fine with me, I'll be only to happy to pay you out at the Jim Jam if What A Cracker does the trick for you. I might even throw in a bottle of champagne because I've probably taken more than I should on Fletcher's Folly and we'll both be celebrating if What A Cracker wins the blooming race.'
'I'll hold you to that promise,' I said as I picked up my holdall, walked out of the restaurant and jumped on a passing omnibus to Bedford Square. As we rattled our way down Oxford Street I chuckled to myself as I wondered how Geoffrey MacArthur might react to Abigail Wiggins's steamy manuscript. There was still a happy smile on my face as I opened the front door of Hartfield and Moser's offices.
I made my way to my employer's office but neither he nor Miss Thompson, his personal secretary, were to be seen. I was about to sit down and wait for their return when a typist came in and told me that Mr. MacArthur had taken Miss Thompson to the third floor boardroom for a private conference, leaving strict instructions that they were not to be disturbed. 'Well, on my head be it, but I must interrupt them for just a couple of moments because it would be best not to leave this particular manuscript lying around. Don't worry, I know where to go,' I said to her as I picked up my bag.
So I trudged up the stairs, the thick carpeting muffling the sound of my footsteps, although when I reached the third floor the silence was broken by a familiar gasping noise that emanated from behind the frosted glass door of the boardroom. There was no mistaking these sounds and a wide grin spread across my face as I realized just why Mr. MacArthur had not wanted to be disturbed! I would have wagered a thousand pounds with Sid Cohen that, rather than planning the publication schedule for the busy Autumn months, my boss was engaged in a rattling good fuck with Miss Thompson, his attractive assistant who had always caught my eye on my weekly visits to the office.
